


Mark it with B

by moth2fic



Series: The Train [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Loosely based on fandoms dealing with terrorist attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 16:18:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10597671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moth2fic/pseuds/moth2fic
Summary: He had such a busy morning ahead of him





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt 'Ain't No Rest For The Wicked' in the LJ comm wordsinthebrain. I added a couple of lines to the first version to make it suitable for the collection.

Busy, busy, busy. He drummed his slightly podgy pale fingers on the sides of his corduroy pants. So much to do, so much to remember. Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake. Tap, tap, tap.

Ingredients sourced and gathered. Check. Ingredients weighed and combined. Check. Ingredients packaged just right. Check. Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker's man. 

He was, he thought, quite a competent baker's man, and now it was nearly time to take up the other time-honoured role of baker's delivery boy.

Bake me a cake, as fast as you can. Everything had come together and even within the time limits _they_ had suggested - or threatened - or ordered - or however you wanted to look at it. He didn't want to look at it at all but he was pleased with his baking skills.

Pat it and prick it. Yes, he'd done all that, even adding some refinements of his own like the small nails and the metal shavings. Those would add sparkle and frosting.

Mark it with B. B for what? B for baker? B for Birmingham, Bristol, Belfast? B for bo.. - well, no, probably nothing as obvious as that. B, anyway, and he'd idly scrawled a capital B in pencil on the outer wrapping. 

Put it in the oven. Check. His new bicycle had a beautiful traditional delivery basket on the front. It would draw all eyes, towards the machine and away from the rider. Everything was loaded and the trigger would simply be the pressure when the bicycle came to a halt in someone's hands or against a wall, or even falling sideways onto the road. 

Without him, of course. He'd practised this bit hard. Busy, always busy. As he got off the bike he'd whip off the first wig and if anyone had seen a man with wild white hair pedalling madly now they'd see a younger man with a sleek cap of black hair moving slowly away. It would only take a moment to remove the loud checked jacket and discard it on a wall. Then the young man would saunter, casual in shirt sleeves, along the ridge. Witnesses would be confused. Of course, the bicycle itself should reduce the number of witnesses. Pity about the eventual fate of the bicycle. It was a worthy confederate and had cost more than the ingredients in the package. 

Put it in the oven for baby and me. Of course. B for baby, because that way gender and name were unimportant and the rhyme could be used over and over again. And again, check, because there would probably be babies in the crowded market place where the bicycle was headed. You could blame their parents, really, for taking them shopping instead of playing with them at home. In what ever time they had they'd appreciate the sparkling bits. 

He wasn't sure how far the bike would travel with no-one pedalling. The weight of the package might keep it upright for a while and even stop it wobbling too much. He hadn't dared experiment. It didn't really matter as long as it reached a point with plenty of bystanders. His cake, like any masterpiece, deserved a good audience.

He should be well away from blast point, able to turn with the same shock and surprise of those around him to watch the scene. If not, if things went really wrong, well, he shrugged. At least he wouldn't have to answer to _them_ any more. And if they believed he had been close to ground zero they might even believe him gone. Then, and his small eyes gleamed with the thought, he could do his own thing, choose his own targets. It shouldn't be too hard to find a way to fund it all. 

He pedalled strongly, braked carefully, got off with one hand on a handle-bar then turned and flicked the bike downhill on its way, throwing the wig into the basket as a last minute pretence of icing. 

Now he was above the road, jacket gone, looking away from the town, always away, waiting for the noise and the reactions of those around him to let him know it was safe to turn, to watch, to express outrage and shock. 

For the few remaining seconds his fingers continued their drumming. Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker's man. Such a busy morning. 

_bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb_

 

Later, much much later, he wondered why they wouldn't let him take his bicycle on the train, and why there were no first class coaches. And then, why he always ended up as the delivery boy and never the master baker. Perhaps _they_ hadn't really liked his cake after all.


End file.
